Lessons from The Budget

… and not the GOP or Democrats

Word that Sarah Troyer, of Winesburgh, Ohio, was "laid up but, in good spirits" probably wouldn't be front-page news in a small-town paper yet alone a national publication, except for The Budget.

As the weekly journal of the Amish and Mennonite communities, that kind of item is, to borrow another newspaper's motto, all the news that's fit to print. Front to back, 46 pages in a recent issue, that's what The Budget's readers get: a report from Albion, Pa., that church attendance was down because "sickness is still going around the settlement." A tale of woe from Mrs. Leroy Yoder, of Mifflintown, Pa., about pesky starlings who hog her bird feeder, refusing to share with other species: "I holler at them and call them worthless sinners, but of course they don't care what they're called."

In between those dispatches from its "scribes," The Budget's 850 local correspondents, there's nary a notice of the world of the English, as the Amish call all those who don't speak their Germanic dialect. Not a word about Europe's financial crisis, or the Republican Party's primaries. Yet there's a lesson for the rest of us in spirit that moves the 122-year-old newspaper's readers and writers.

This year's presidential election is shaping up as an Armageddon-like struggle between warring ideologies. GOP candidates are warming up for the fall campaign by denouncing each other as soft on government, Public Enemy No. 1, according to conservatives. In his State of the Union address, President Barack Obama recommitted the Democratic Party to the liberal faith in government as the community's way of solving problems individuals can't handle.

The Amish split the difference. Wary of government, they refuse to serve in the military. If harmed, they decline to take the offender to court. So on that score, they might be Republicans — except that they don't vote. But their devotion to community makes the Democrats look like Libertarians. The Amish have no more use for Ayn Rand-style rugged individualism than Mrs. Yoder had for those selfish starlings.

Service to others in their time of need is, quite literally, a religious commitment for the Amish and their theological cousins, the Mennonites. "Tuesday, several women lend a hand with painting the walls of a new house the men built at Tushka," an Oklahoma town in a tornado's path, a Budget scribe reports.

The quirky position of the Amish — communitarians standoffish from government — is a reminder that at the ideological extremes all political positions are self-contradictory. Conservatives run for public offices that their campaign platform says we'd be better off without. Liberals are blind to the fact that government can be a big pain in the backside.

Just that affliction recently led me to rediscover the wonders of The Budget's news columns. Having installed a bathroom ceiling fan in our Indiana home, I flipped the wall switch and got twilight. The device has one of those post-Edison Era fluorescent bulbs. In the name of energy efficiency, the government has put the incandescent bulb beyond the pale. Nor could the factory bulb be swapped for a traditional one, the socket only accepts the new — which, being fluorescent, warms up slowly. Even at full power, it gives off a harsh bluish light reminiscent of a morgue.

Eventually, the wife suggested going for a ride. She sensed I was about to go ballistic for the umpteenth time about the manufacturer's claim that, while only drawing 15 watts, the bulb produces as much light as an old-style 60-watt bulb.

Fortunately for my sanity — and even more so, for my wife's — only a short drive away we began sharing the road with horse-drawn buggies with bearded drivers. Schoolchildren dressed in the same plain clothing of their elders were walking or cycling home. As twilight descended, neither incandescent or fluorescent light shone from nearby homes. The Amish don't use electricity.

The enveloping anachronism had a calming effect, and in hopes of taking some home, I picked up a copy of The Budget at a roadside shop. The clerk called it: "The Amish Facebook." It's just that: a pre-electronic way of keeping in touch with loved ones. For the Amish and Mennonites that includes all those who share their faith, no matter at what distance in space or time.

Which means an abiding interest in tidbits from up and down life's back roads, like:

Recollections of a scribe's father who died some years ago: "A person's hands can tell a lot about the individual. He was a farmer all of his life and did roofing and eave spouting work on the sideline." (Fairview, Mich.)

All of which suggests we might be cautious about putting too much store in politicians' highfalutin pronouncements. Liberal or conservative, they are only fallible humans, which stacks the odds against them from being able to redeem even the best-intended promises. Maybe it's better to focus less on big-picture issues, like cap and trade and flat tax. Instead, try a homespun recipe for making this world a little better place offered by the scribe in Lott, Texas: